In an effort to put some space between ourselves and our kids, KH and I decided to haul our 5 total kids down to the beach. We smuggled in our margaritas, sat back and munched on junk food and 'supervised' the kids as they played in the white sand of the Gulf.
As I sat there, crouching under my wind-blown umbrella, I got to thinking about my favorite beaches and how it is, exactly, that I am now spending my beach days in Alabama.
For comparison, I'll use the beach down by my parents' house. It's not Malibu or Santa Monica. It's not Newport or Huntington. It's a small beach, depth wise, but continues on for a nice while and enjoys year-round surfers and sunbathers. I could use my favorite spot in the world, Poipu beach, but alas, I can't even comprehend Alabama and Hawaii at the same time, and if I force myself to, my head will explode.
KH is one of my psycho skinny friends. Despite 3 kids, the woman rocks a bikini. Unlike the women in the family next to us. Each woman was boasting at least 18 inches of combined cleavage/butt crack. They had thick, leathery skin with unappealing wrinkly tattoos. They herded their children around with childish aggression and whined much like their own offspring. At one point, a woman said,"I didn't dig dat hole in da sand fer you to climb in! Git outta der! Dat's my hole."
KH and I burst into laughter.
While these sunbathers were definitely good for the ego, they weren't the most attractive or quiet of neighbors. Then I think of the potential beach neighbors in Southern Cal: Mother/Daughter clones of blond hair, silicone parts, fake tans and nails. Both honed by personal trainers and/or eating disorders into perfect Barbie-esque figures. Guys spending too much time at the gym gazing at their chests, forgetting to work their bird-like legs. All, parading down the beach, adjusting their suits, preening as they seek the eyes of all beachgoers. These people are seriously hard on the self-image. I can handle sitting next to one skinny minnie, but not a beachload of fake ones.
So, there's that tradeoff. I think I prefer the eye candy. At least, I can speculate who's real and who's 93% silicone. It's something to talk about. Jabba the Hutt and Co. weren't really conversation starters so much as a sad, sad joke.
Also, there is the quality of the beach itself. The beach in Southern California is subject to all sorts of liberal, tree-hugging, preservationist, beautifying laws. I realize that Alabama would sooner surrender its Confederate flag collection than legislate environmental protection, but it does have some benefits.
The Cali beaches are pristine stretches of sand, dotted with mounds of sea kelp and mussel shells. Loud, crashing surf foams and races up the beach and retreats in mesmerizing consistency. The beach air smells of salt and drying kelp and marine life.
Things were a little different down at the Gulf. Though the white sand is indeed beautiful, the water on the Mobile bay side of Dauphin Island is sometimes, um, gross. All of the river runoff from a state populated by litterbugs runs into the bay and yields a soupy mix of all kinds of detritus that belongs in a landfill.
The boys ran off to play in a little pool left by the tide. We watched their heads bob and play as they explored as boys often do. But when they came back, they reeked of swamp. S explained that they found a catfish skeleton in the pool. W said the algae on his face was splashed on there and promised he didn't put his face in the water. E had some brownish stain on his pants. T had a cut on his leg. "Where did you get that?"
Shrug. "A bed."
"A bed?!"
"Yah, there was a mattress in that pool."
Oh, hooray. Our kids went swimming with trash. We're a long way from Kauai, Toto.
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